


i like for you to be still

by whyyesitscar



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7186064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of Soft Clexa Aesthetic drabbles and oneshots. nobody dies, nobody's sad, everyone lives and lexa and clarke love each other in every version of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hazy

**Author's Note:**

> i've been sitting on this first story in the collection for a few weeks. it was half-written with hopeful notes for the second part that i just couldn't turn into anything coherent. but orlando is bleeding and our community has lost so many people so quickly, and i don't know about you guys but i need something soft and loving to soothe me. so, here you go.
> 
> this chapter came out of a prompt from [boozyanon,](http://boozyanon.tumblr.com/) the gist of which is "smol nervous lexa takes care of clarke post-surgery and doesn't know if she should, and clarke is like of course you should you precious idiot."
> 
> title is from a poem of the same name by pablo neruda, lyrics at the beginning are from "hazy" by rosi golan feat. william fitzsimmons.

_i watched you sleeping, quietly, in my bed._  
_you don't know this now but there's some things that need to be said,_  
_and it's all that i can hear;  
_ _it's more than i can bear._

/

You never thought you’d have to get used to the beeping again.

If you could have had any say in it, you’d never have stepped foot in a hospital again, and definitely not this hospital. All hospitals know their people, but it’s frightening the other way around. You don’t want to be one of its people, but your father taught you that the oncology wing has the best vending machines. Your mother disappeared soon after—you learned that sometimes that happens in hospitals. (Costia taught you that even science gets tired. Sometimes, even science breaks.) 

You know things now that you wish you didn’t.

But you also know that beeping is good, and you know how to listen past it until it lulls you to sleep. You know that Clarke is breathing and fine and here, and if she were awake she would want to hold your hand. 

Her fingers are cold when you reach over, and you decide you’ll just have to stay until they warm up.

/

She’s here, of all things, because she ruptured her spleen. Technically there was a car crash before that, but a lacerated spleen is the only injury she came away with. _You’re_ here because yours was the last number she dialed and the hospital couldn’t get a hold of anyone else.

Octavia is on vacation, Raven is in surgery, and Clarke’s mother is in there with her, hopefully fixing her leg. You weren’t here when they wheeled her up but from the way the ER doctor kept explaining everything with sad eyes, you guess that it isn’t looking good.

So here you are, dozing to the white noise of a hospital at two a.m. and holding the hand of a girl you’ve only been dating for two months. About every ten minutes you change your mind and decide that it’s time to leave—what if Clarke wouldn’t want you here; what if she wakes up and becomes really uncomfortable at the idea of a mostly-stranger sitting vigil at her bedside for hours? But someone should be here for her, and so every ten minutes and thirty seconds you decide not to change your mind. 

Five hours later the door opens and you jerk in your chair, surprised by the unexpected sound. The hospital is starting to wake up just as you were finally falling asleep.

A nurse smiles at your sleepy movements. “Dr. Griffin is out of surgery,” she murmurs, careful not to wake Clarke. “She wants to speak with whoever’s here for Raven, which I guess is you.” 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you grumble, standing and cracking your back. You give your hair a run-through with your fingers and leave the room, resisting the urge to steal one more glance back at Clarke, just in case.

“You’re here for Raven?” Dr. Griffin asks.

You stand up straighter when you see her. You fix your posture and you adjust your shirt and you tuck your hair behind your ears because this is Clarke’s mom and _gosh_ , they look alike. You already worry enough about impressing one of them, let alone two.

“Octavia’s in Thailand,” you offer. You hold out your arm and hope it doesn’t shake. “I’m Lexa.”

Dr. Griffin quirks an eyebrow just enough for you to notice. (You’d been looking.) “Clarke’s Lexa?”

You blush. “Well, I’m not—I mean—we’re dating, but—anyway, how’s Raven? Still got two legs?”

“Still got two,” Dr. Griffin nods.

“Both of them working?”

“One is.”

You huff out a breath and rest your hands on your hips as you begin to pace. You’re not sure how to feel about this, how you’re _supposed_ to feel about this. You barely know Clarke, so you less-than-barely know Raven; is it appropriate to be nervous and worried? Is it appropriate to feel sympathy like you would for a friend? You’ve spent most of the night waiting for everyone to pull through and someone to tell you that you can go home, only to realize you might still need to stay.

“Lexa?”

Dr. Griffin stops you in your tracks, hand on your shoulder, eyes kinder than you’d expected them to be.

“Sorry.” You shake your head. “I’m glad Raven’s okay; I’m really relieved. I’m just not sure what to make of all of this. I spend most of my time with Clarke,” you protest weakly, “and now I’m at the hospital waiting for her friend to pull through surgery.”

Dr. Griffin smiles and gives your shoulder a squeeze. “Which she did, so you can take a breath or two. I have to say, I was surprised to see you here instead of Clarke.”

“What?”

“Is she in the cafeteria? God forbid she finds the cakes; I thought we hid them well enough the last time.”

“Dr. Griffin…” 

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know because she’s an orthopedic surgeon and spleens fall under general; she doesn’t know because every department has different nurses and these nurses don’t know Clarke’s face or that she’s Abby Griffin’s daughter. 

_God_ , why did Octavia choose now to go to Thailand?

“You don’t know,” you say, waiting for her to nod before you continue. “Raven needed surgery because she was in a car accident.”

“Yes.”

“It was a two-person accident,” and you start to see the wheels turning in her eyes.

“Lexa…”

“Clarke was driving when they got hit— _wait_ , Dr. Griffin! Please wait.” She moves toward the door and you move in front of her, only flinching a little when she glares at you. “She’s fine, she’s stable, the door handle lacerated her spleen but she’s okay. Dr. Jackson operated on her and she’s been asleep since one this morning.”

“You could have led with that.”

“I thought you knew,” you say, but Dr. Griffin is already in her room, taking your spot in the chair.

You start to follow her and then catch yourself; it isn’t your place anymore. So you go upstairs and find a chair around where you think Raven should be, and you wait. 

/ 

A nurse wakes you a few hours later to say that Raven is sleeping and definitely won’t wake up anytime soon, and Clarke has been discharged. You bristle before you remember—you’re still in the early stages of dating; her mom works at the hospital; you aren’t yet entitled to her life. 

Still. If she’s discharged that must mean she has her phone back.

You take a deep breath and send a text, hoping to come across as a lot more nonchalant than you feel.

 

**[10:32 am]**

_I really, really hope you’ve slept enough  
_ _in the last few hours to be awake right now._

**[10:33 am]**

_I’ve slept enough in the last few hours_  
_to be awake for the rest of my life.  
_ _Don’t you have class?_

**[10:33 am]**

_Can I come over instead?_

**[10:33 am]**

_Of course._

You drive to her apartment very slowly and tell yourself it’s not because you’re superstitious.

/

The door to her unit is slightly open and you should be worried, but you smile instead. Clarke is sprawled out on the couch when you go in, one arm resting on her forehead.

She’s a drama queen, you’ve discovered. 

“You had to stand up to buzz me in,” you say, closing the door.

“I know.”

“Couldn’t stay there a few extra seconds?”

“Didn’t want to.”

You sit down next to her feet, gently tugging them to rest in your lap. You rub your fingers into the pads of her toes, which you know are always sore from painting. Clarke doesn’t like to paint on small canvases, which would be alright if she were a little taller.

“Have you seen Raven?” you ask.

Clarke hums and flexes her feet. “Barely.” Her ankles dig down into your thighs so you readjust and massage them, too. “My mom let me visit for, like, a minute before she threw me in a cab and sent me home.”

“You’d think she’d be more gentle. You know, for a doctor.”

Clarke peeks an eye out from underneath her arm. “Uh oh, you’re bristling. What happened?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. I was just worried about you guys, that’s all.”

“Lexa.” Clarke pulls her legs from your lap; you frown at her and pull them back when she winces. “Come on. It’s never nothing with you.” 

“I’m just”—your face flushes and you hate when it does that, but somehow it’s uncontrollable around Clarke—“this is going to sound really selfish and I don’t mean it that way, and I wish I didn’t feel it, but I’m just…I’m surprised you didn’t see me by Raven’s room, that’s all. I would have liked to say hi.”

“You were waiting for Raven?”

“Yeah, I went up there after—”

“After what?”

You shake your head again, and this time Clarke tries to sit up. “It’s—”

“If you say nothing, Lexa, I swear…”

You roll your eyes. “It was way too early,” you huff. “Those hospital room chairs aren’t comfortable and I had just gotten to sleep and then the nurse was shaking me awake and I had to talk to the doctor, which ended up with me telling her that her daughter was in a car accident and when that didn’t go well I stumbled up to the 5th floor to wait for Raven. The next time I woke up they told me you’d both been discharged.” 

Clarke flops back against the arm of the couch. “There are so many parts of that story that I don’t understand.”

“I will explain it more slowly.”

“Actually, I kind of just want to go back to bed.”

“Okay.” 

/

You don’t follow Clarke back to her room, but you do stay. Other people might have taken that as a cue to leave, and maybe you should have, but Clarke is two roommates short right now and she’s got a hole in her side. The least you can do is a load of dishes, maybe finally get that lingering paint out of her brush mug.

So you stay and clean up, and you grumble when you give up on the mug. Clarke is still asleep so you rearrange her fridge, putting the things you know she uses the most on lower shelves so she doesn’t have to reach. You do the same to her cabinets and the pantry and you run out of space to organize, and still she sleeps. It’s the painkillers, you suppose. They’re inconvenient all the same.

You creep past her room and into the bathroom and drag out the cleaning as much as you can. You’re about to go searching for some Windex for the mirror when you hear a thump behind you.

Clarke is leaning against the doorframe, trying to readjust so it isn’t so obvious that she fell against it.

“Why do I get the feeling that our relationship is going to consist of a lot of explaining?”

“The more you get to know me, the less you’ll need explanations.”

“Yeah, but until then…”

You smile and lean against the sink, crossing your arms. “I have good reasons.”

“Oh, and I definitely want to hear them. But first I have a question for you.”

“Okay.” 

“Raven is on the fourth floor. Why were you on the fifth?”

“Damn, she was on the fourth?” You wince as Clarke nods. “I must have heard the floor wrong.”

“I knew it.” Clarke’s eyes darken with understanding and you’re not sure why she’s mad at you, but you hope it’s something you can fix. “I bet she told you wrong on purpose.”

“What?”

“My mom, which: kudos to you for talking to her—it took Raven six months to stop shitting herself at the thought of meeting Abby Griffin.”

“Clarke, I didn’t—”

“She’s a great mom and I love her but _fuck_ , she can be territorial and a little ridiculous sometimes. I just didn’t think she’d be so petty so soon.”

“Clarke.” You say her name in that way that always gets her attention (that way you discovered on your third date and have relished ever since.) She softens and smiles and you almost forget how to stand. 

“I didn’t hear it from your mom,” you eventually say. “One of the nurses told me where Raven was. I was really tired; I’m a hundred percent certain I misheard her.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” You smile. Clarke pouts and you smile wider. “Speaking of tired, you should be resting.”

“Lexa, I just slept for three hours.”

“Was it only three hours?”

Clarke laughs and pushes herself off the doorframe, looping her arms around your waist after a slower-than-usual walk towards you.

“What are you still doing here?” she smirks.

Your face falls and your hands still against her back. “Did I stay two and a half hours past my welcome? I didn’t mean to impose.”

Clarke smooths her thumbs across your cheeks and kisses you without any hesitation. “Lexa,” she hums. “I’m not asking you why you’re here. I’m asking you what you’re _doing_ here. This is your first of many explanations.” 

“Oh.”

She smiles and kisses you again. Clarke brings her hands to rest at the back of your neck, twisting those stray, baby-fine curls you can never seem to tamp down.

“I want you here,” she reassures. “I want you here and I’m glad you’re here.”

“I redid your kitchen.”

“What?”

“And the bathroom. I was going to do Raven’s room next but then you woke up.”

“Help me out a little more, Lex.”

Your heart skips at the nickname and you reach behind your shoulder to pull open the medicine cabinet. Clarke’s eyes scan the shelves for a few moments before she notices the changes. 

“Lexa…”

This time, you kiss her, and the only reason you’re not smiling is because a smile is not big enough to contain what you feel.

She rests her forehead against yours when you pull away. You stretch out the moment as long as you can, soaking in the smell of her and how solid her shoulders feel in your hands. You slip your fingers underneath the hem of her shirt and spread them out, cherishing the warmth of her skin, the softness of the small hairs on her stomach. You can feel her breathing. You can feel her living.

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” you murmur.

Clarke inhales a breath and squeaks out the smallest sound you’ve ever heard. “Lexa, I—is it too soon?” she whispers.

(You’re pretty sure the day when neither of you needs explanations is rapidly approaching.)

“No,” you whisper back. “I feel it, too.”

“Good.”


	2. sing to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lexa just wants the world to stay fixed and clarke just wants lexa to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song by red molly. you can imagine clarke is singing whatever you want, but i personally like to believe that at least one recording of danny boy inexplicably made its way into the 2150s.

_i got nothing left._   
_still, i cannot rest._   
_the aching in my chest, it's growing hard._

_so please use any means_   
_to shift the way i'm seeing things._   
_darling, sing to me._

/

Peace is not easy. War is hard, but peace is harder.

Titus would have told you that, had he survived the war. Perhaps that’s why he kept pushing you toward battle, toward calculated and aggressive decisions. War you can grip like a stone. Peace crumbles to sand if you squeeze too hard.

The coalition will stand, you have no doubt of this. Azgeda is an important ally under Roan’s rule, and the legend of Wanheda will always be stronger than how wary the other clans are of Skaikru. Your campaign for peace has succeeded. It will sustain, at least as long as you and Clarke do.

But the what-ifs that come after are the knots in your shoulders, the persistent thumping underneath your eyes. Your hands rarely unclench these days. You haven’t physically fought anyone in weeks and yet sometimes you wish you could. Sometimes you wish you could change the world with a few well-aimed fists. Titus’s ways were wrong and misguided and he died for them. But they were simpler.

For all he drilled into your head about appearances and decorum, he cared little for diplomacy. You wouldn’t listen to Titus now even if he were still alive. He never taught you how to draft a trade agreement or redraw boundaries between clans. Those were duties for your ambassadors, problems to be solved within the clans themselves.

In the wake of the battle with A.L.I.E., your council is shaken. The City of Light stole many of your ambassadors, and their replacements are either too young to be adept at changing policies, or too unsympathetic to try. Meetings exhaust you more than battles, these days. More than once you have to fight against falling asleep, yet your mind never calms enough to rest at night. The dark brings only nightmares or loneliness. You’ve begun to fear it, as if you were still a small child.

Each day is just as tiring as the one before it, and you measure time only in travel. Once Azgeda dealt with Ontari, and the unrest in the Ice Nation began, Clarke offered to oversee matters in Polis and the surrounding clans. You’d wanted to say no, that both of you deserved some rest from responsibility. But the world didn’t stop even if you wanted it to, so you agreed.

You have been traveling for close to four months, visiting clans and making sure they understand that the rules are different now. Indra shakes you awake as you ride into Polis, but she doesn’t need to. You can smell it. The air feels different as it whistles across your face. You could find Polis even if all of your senses vanished.

Tonight, it is such a stark contrast between the deserts and dunes of your most recent journey that you actually smile. One of your particularly difficult tasks is to bring the Wastelanders back into the coalition. They have valuable resources and knowledge, and their relative autonomy unnerves you. They are not a thriving society by any usual definition, but they can exist without you. It is your job, in this fragile world, to make sure nothing can. You spent two weeks with them, and you’re not sure you’ve succeeded.

Your movements are rote as you make your way back to the Commander’s Tower. You bid Indra goodnight at a fork in the main road; you pat your horse’s shoulder as you leave her in the stables. You forget everything as soon as you do it, though your mind is filled with conversations and conferences that could have gone better. You’re far more articulate and tactful in your head. You’d always have the perfect answer if you were also the only one posing questions.

But you cannot change the past, and you didn’t change anything in the last two weeks, and so your legs grow heavier with each step. The path to your room (the path to Clarke) is lined with worry and doubt. You feel guilty that you aren’t coming back with better news. You wish you didn’t have to remind Clarke that sometimes the Commander just fails.

She is waiting for you, as you knew she would be. Clarke is stretched out on your sofa, surrounded by pamphlets and half-finished sketches. There are more candles lit than you even knew you owned. Clarke smiles the moment you walk in, and you stall, taking a moment to blink back tears as you try not to break the doorknob.

She won’t let you stew for too long; she never can. Clarke’s fingers are solid and sure on your back; relief floods through you so strong you think it must be a dream. 

“Welcome home,” she murmurs.

“Thank you.”

“I love you.”

You lean back against her hand. If you close your eyes, you can forget that you and Clarke are two people.

You don’t feel a pressing need to say it now, not the way you did during the war. Death is less imminent than before, less guaranteed, and you have time. The feelings are still the most important part, and those were never in danger of going away.

But the words are important, too.

“I love you,” you repeat.

Clarke swipes her thumb across your neck and suddenly everything is too much. Clarke is too close and too warm and too big. The only remedy is to fall into her, and so you do. Clarke wraps her arms around you, cradling your head to her shoulder, and you make her closer and warmer and bigger. You are drowning.

“How long are you staying this time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you even thought about it?”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“Okay.”

Clarke moves her hands, linking them to rest above your hips. You press your forehead further into her shoulder, chasing the remnants of warmth that linger in her skin from the candles. You are the most powerful person in the world, but it is only in Clarke’s arms that you let yourself feel small.

“How’s Polis?” you mumble.

“The same.”

You hum, low and displeased, your cheek vibrating against Clarke. Nothing should be the same. Yet in spite of how hard both of you are working, it is.

“Are we making a difference?”

“Yes.”

“Will it last beyond us?”

Clarke lifts your head, smiling as she smooths underneath your tired eyes. “Come lie down, Lexa.” She kisses you—finally—and you remember to breathe. “I missed you.”

Clarke leads you to the bed, dragging back furs as you shed your outer layers of clothes. She stops you before you fully undress, scooting back toward the pillows and pulling you against her as soon as the bed is ready.

“When I used to have bad dreams,” she says, “my dad would drag me to this forgotten part of the Ark. He’d grab a blanket and point me at the stars and make up ridiculous stories about constellations until I laughed myself to sleep. Sometimes he’d even take me there before the nightmares started, like he knew. Parents kind of have a radar, you know?”

You don’t know, but you used to have parents, and you remember.

“My mother sang to me,” you offer. “I don’t remember the song, but sometimes it seems like I can hear it if the wind blows just right.”

“Okay.”

Clarke sounds nothing like your mother. You don’t recognize the song and of course it’s not in Trigedasleng. She strains to reach some notes and she forgets a few words, but her voice is deep, comforting the way a fire is just before it becomes too hot. And halfway through, after she fumbles and repeats the first verse, you close your eyes. 

Clarke is watching you when you wake, propped up on her elbow. The sun is shining and the desert is very far away, and she kisses you.

She kisses you, and you might just be rested yet.


	3. oh, it is love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt from tumblr: "Don’t imagine your otp on a hammock together. Don’t imagine Person B is asleep on Person A’s chest and definitely don’t imagine Person A with one foot on the floor so they can rock the hammock in hopes of keeping Person B asleep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to the anon who prompted me: i hope you didn't think i forgot or ignored you! i just had to let it sit and build before i wrote it. i hope you enjoy it!
> 
> lyrics from "oh, it is love" by hellogoodbye

_oh, say, wouldn't you like to be older and married with me?_  
_oh, say, wouldn't it be nice to know right now that we'll be, someday,_  
_holding hands in the end. all our broken plans will have been,_  
_and i will kiss you soft so you know  
_ _it is love._

/

It’s in quiet moments like these that you think about the future. You can’t help it, when Lexa is so still and so calm, and you have time to indulge the wandering thoughts she usually soothes away. She sleeps better than you most nights. Lexa has an uncanny ability to compartmentalize, and as much as that bothered you in the early stages of your relationship, you’ve come to cling to its reliability. Lexa loves every part of you with all of the parts of her, and when there is a bit of yourself you can’t love, she stores it away until you’re ready.

Lexa shifts against you, her elbow dangerously close to jabbing your stomach. You smile, pick up her arm, and kiss the back of her hand. The pebble under your left foot drags against a sensitive part of your sole every time you rock the hammock, the one you haphazardly set up on the sort-of-balcony attached to your tiny apartment. Lexa smells like gas and burnt bananas, remnants from her Sunday morning job at the local farmers market. She makes crepes far earlier in the day than most people are thinking about eating them and will never admit to how tired she is when she gets home. (You, on the other hand, sleep until eleven and roll into the market with a thermos of coffee, promising that next week you’ll be there bright and early so you don’t miss all the really good, fresh crepes. Lexa always smiles and takes the thermos before she clears the grill of any crusty, charred dough, and makes you a really good crepe anyway.)

It’s August, still warm enough to sit outside at night; too warm so you have to stay up late to feel a touch of the chill that’s on the horizon. Lexa tries valiantly to stay up with you. More often than not she barely makes it through dessert. School will start back up in a few weeks and you’ll see a different Lexa, one that only has time for crepes and hammocks after finals. She locks away her summer skin and brings out her autumn curls. You’re the only one who knows that when she’s sleepy enough, she exists in all seasons.

The hammock creaks as you sway. A few blocks down, there’s a thump and a yell, followed by a chorus of laughter. Whoever they are, they sound young and drunk, loud in the way you get when it’s summer and Sundays don’t mean anything. Lexa shifts again and you chuckle, careful not to wake her. She pours so much of herself into everything all the time, and so you cherish the moments when she rests, when you can pour yourself into her.

You’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, how much of yourself you want to give to her. The answer is a lot of you. Probably all of you. (Definitely all of you.) These aren’t the thoughts you should be having, or so everyone tells you. Twenty-four and in grad school, living on small paychecks and lots of favors from friends. But it feels like you’re waiting for something more, for the other shoe to finally drop and you couldn’t imagine if Lexa weren’t there to see it. You want her there when your life turns into big paychecks and, still, lots of favors from friends.

The pebble rolls across your foot less comfortably than before, and you can’t help letting out a hiss and a curse. Lexa stirs, awake this time, stretching her arms and gracefully avoiding your face.

“Go back to sleep,” you murmur.

“Can’t,” Lexa whispers. “You’re thinking too loud.”

“They’re meant to be soothing thoughts.”

Lexa sighs, her eyes still closed. “Not possible. You have so much inside of you.”

“Too much?”

“More than enough.”

Lexa turns over, settling her head in the crook of your arm. She pulls you down for a kiss (you were leaning, anyway) and scratches her nails on the back of your neck. 

“I didn’t mean to say your thoughts can’t be soothing.”

“I know.”

“I can just always feel them.”

“I know.” 

“They’re probably soothing to you; I’m sorry.”

“Lexa.” You poke a finger into her side, hoping she’ll laugh away the worry. (She does.) “You don’t need to explain yourself so much. We’ve been together long enough; I know what you mean.”

“Okay.” She pauses, thinking—you can feel those, too—her long fingers playing with the hem of your shorts. She hates this pair, stained and frayed from your undergrad days, but she won’t ever tell you to throw them out. You’ve made it your mission to catch her wearing them at least once. You’re certain she already does.

“What were you thinking about?” she finally asks.

You take a breath and kiss her temple. “Marrying you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well.” She clears her throat, kisses you once (twice), and clears her throat again. “Well,” she repeats, “I take it back.” 

“Take what back?” 

“That is _very_ soothing.”

You stay on the hammock for a while longer. It would have been all night, but Lexa carries you back inside when you start shivering, half-asleep. She closes the sliding door softly, considerately (she does everything considerately) and slips under the sheets with you. After taking a few moments to get settled, she rolls onto her side, taking your arm with her. You love a lot of things about Lexa, but perhaps the part you are most grateful for is the part of her that recognizes when you want to be the comforter. Oftentimes it’s Lexa, whose every bone is gracious, wrapping an arm around you, needing to feel that she’s given everything you need. She knows, though, knows so well that sometimes what you need is to give to her.

You scoot closer to her, pressing your arms around her middle and smiling against her neck. The last thing you feel before you drift asleep is the wisp of a kiss she places on your fingers.


	4. come to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fic prompt from an anon on tumblr: "after a rough patch in their relationship (busy with careers, family drama, etc.) they finally get back on track with loving each other."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics from "come to me" by the goo goo dolls. (i cut the lyric pick in half, anon; hope that's cool)

_come to me with secrets bare._   
_I'll love you more, so don't be scared_   
_when we're old and near the end;_   
_we'll go home and start again_

/

It was your mom’s idea, of all people. You wouldn’t let her comment on your relationship for the longest time—not because she didn’t understand, but because she wasn’t done grieving hers. You got away with it for a few months and then you remembered exactly where you got your stubborn streak from.

(You started listening initially because you misheard her.

_“Get away with Lexa,”_ she’d said. _“Get away from Lexa,"_ you’d heard, and you spent at least two full minutes telling her why that was a bad idea before she even let you know that it wasn’t her idea at all.)

So here you are, getting away with Lexa to a spa in Arizona because anything more than dry heat creates a mess of her hair. Secretly you love the frizz (you used to call her Hermione in college), but she isn’t so easily amused. Somewhere, in the middle of Arkansas, you swear you can see it start to flatten, and you smile.

“What?” she asks, even though it doesn’t seem like she’d notice. You know better. It’s Lexa; she always notices.

“Nothing,” you say. “It just looks like we’re heading out of Granger danger.” 

Lexa smiles in spite of herself, reaches across the center console, and holds your hand all the way into Oklahoma.

It’s the most you’ve touched in days.

/

Your mother had given you mountains of spa brochures—ones with yogis; ones with hot springs; ones with wilderness retreats. All of them with counselors. Abby Griffin believes in science to a fault; there isn’t a problem that can’t be solved without consulting a group of well-respected academic minds first. She was adamant that your relationship troubles would only be resolved with professional help.

You were sure that if professional help was the only thing that could save your relationship, you didn’t really have one in the first place.

(Still, you didn’t show Lexa any of the brochures with counselors. She would have agreed with your mom. Given the choice between direct contact and no contact, Lexa always chooses the middleman.

She calls it a peace offering.)

This trip is less about the spa anyway, and more about the 36-hour drive down there; more about you; more about Lexa. And so you barely register the breathtaking vistas, even though you know Lexa wants to linger. There will be time for lingering later, when you can lean against her chest and not feel guilty for leaving wasted time unfilled.

Lexa drags your suitcases to the little shack you’ve rented for a week. Both of you packed sensible carry-ons. Yours is a small case that you could easily transport yourself. But though Lexa is distant, she will never stop being chivalrous.

The inside is cool and slightly stale. The season is just starting, and you doubt anyone’s been in this house for months. But it’s neat and stocked, and a few hours of fresh air will wash away anything old. You hope that remains true for more than just the house.

“Are you thirsty?” Lexa opens the fridge, a sliver of light shining against her legs. “There are bottles in here.”

“The tap is fine; those are probably overpriced.”

“A week in a lavish spa resort and the water is what you’re worried about?”

She hands you a glass filled with tap water anyway.

“That’s exactly the attitude they want you to have. You’re feeding into their corporate scheme, Mrs. Griffin-Woods.”

Lexa smiles the same way she always does when someone says your last name.

“Well then, Mrs. Griffin-Woods,” she counters, “it’s tap water for me from now on.” She settles next to you on the couch, curling her feet underneath her butt as far as she can. You’ll never believe her when she says it’s comfortable.

She flips through a pamphlet on the coffee table, brows furrowed. “There’s a sunset meditation in a few minutes,” she offers halfheartedly.

You down half your drink and stretch out, leaning your head on her hip. “Is it okay if we rest instead?”

She sighs and your eyes suddenly well with tears. “Sure.”

/

Lexa is missing when you wake, early enough that the moon is just as bright in the sky as the sun. You smile at the pamphlet still open on the table—there’s a sunrise meditation, too. You’re sure that’s where you’ll find her, because Lexa loosens up most when she can be alone with herself.

Halfway there, you spot a rock formation a few steps behind some trees. You don’t have to see her to know she’s there (but you see her anyway.)

Lexa is sitting, straight-backed and cross-legged, on one of the biggest and reddest rocks you’ve ever seen. Other artists would come here and paint sweeping landscapes on their easels. You’ve never itched more to do a portrait.

“There’s another meditation tomorrow morning,” she says as an explanation.

“Or tonight.”

“Night is for a different kind of reflection.”

“Okay.” 

You sit down next to her, leaning back on your hands. Inevitably, your shoulders touch, and you feel her relax.

“I don’t like when you’re distant,” you murmur. 

“I don’t like being distant.”

“Well, then. All better,” you tease, and she laughs.

Lexa props her head against yours; you can smell the dust and sweat that have started to accumulate on her skin. “You have distance too,” she mumbles.

“I know.”

“It’s different, but it’s not fair that you punish me for mine.”

“I know.”

“We’ll work harder on us,” she promises as she kisses your temple. “You’re the most important part of my life, Clarke. I feel lighter with you.”

When it comes to feelings, you prefer pictures to words. But somehow Lexa has always helped you find the right thing to say.

“Sometimes I feel like if I turned us into a painting, we would smudge the same way." 

Lexa’s fingers grip yours, and she kisses you. The sun rises, and she kisses you. The breeze catches her hair, and she sweats, and she kisses you into a canvas.


	5. all this time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fic prompt: "reincarnation fic. They finally find each other again, after all this time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going to write a different reincarnation fic and then i realized that clarke never actually said 'i love you' to lexa in the one i already wrote (EVEN THOUGH i'm pretty sure we all got the gist. or at least i hope we did.) so this belongs in the same world as ["if i believe in death"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6769471), which i may or may not be continuing into a four-part story. (spoiler alert: i've got 1500 words written of part 2 and i wish the rest would come faster.)
> 
> anyway, thanks to the anon on tumblr for the prompt! lyrics are from "all this time" by onerepublic.

_all this time we were waiting for each other;_   
_all this time i was waiting for you._   
_got all these words, can't waste them on another_   
_so i'm straight, in a straight line, running back to you._

/

You are a different person on your way to her. 

You were Clarke Griffin four hundred years ago and you are Clarke Griffin today, but in this car you’re stuck somewhere in the middle. You don’t know if you should clasp her arm like you did back then or shake her hand like you might now, or maybe bypass both of those entirely and hug her until she tells you to stop. You don’t know how comfortable you should be with her. You don’t know what you’ll do if she has her hair in braids.

What you want more than anything is to have someone comfort you, someone who understands your relationship and what it means. But no one else came back this time and as far as you can tell, Raven doesn’t remember anything. Two lives you’ve lived, and your relationship with Lexa has been a secret in both of them.

Maybe one day you’ll come back to a world where everyone knows. 

/

She is beautiful, more beautiful than you remember her. Lexa answers the door and you forget how to breathe. Your heart skips when she shows you her flowers, and you can’t stop crying as you watch her sleep. You wish, just for a second, that you could go back in time and redo everything, but slower this time. With more thought, with more tact, with a freer mind. You wish you could go back and sever yourself from Arkadia, from obligations. (And, after a few seconds more, you realize the idea of you and Lexa would mean little without obligations.)

She wakes one more time, after the flowers but before the morning truly sets in. The stars are still bright and you long for them. You can’t tell if you’re aching for the distance or the past. But they’re bright and vibrant and they dance on Lexa’s face as she turns over, her eyes lazy and serene.

“You’re going to have to sleep sometime too, you know,” she smiles.

“I know.”

You sweep her hair from her cheeks, kissing her softly. Lexa keeps her eyes closed even after you pull away.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I know,” she echoes.                                                                                                                                        

“I loved you then, too.”

“I knew then.” Lexa opens her eyes and you cry in earnest. She has always been so solid for you, so secure and resolute. You wonder how much Lexa would have fixed if you told her you didn’t like it broken. She died because she tried to fix the world, you realize, for you. And now you have a chance to fix it together, so you cry.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp as she pulls you closer. “I’m sorry I never said it then and I’m sorry it took me so long to say it now.”

“You said it then, Clarke,” Lexa reassures. “I remember.”

“I—what?”

“In the City of Light. You said it first and I didn’t respond in kind.”

“I didn’t—” You don’t know what to say first: that you didn’t think it counted, that you didn’t think it was real. How can a person remember things after death?

“We were so close, Lexa,” you say, changing directions. “So close to fixing things for everyone. We could have been so happy.”

“Do you regret it?”

“I—”

“It’s alright, Clarke. You’re not bound to anyone anymore.”

You sigh, swallow the lump in your throat until it’s the size of a pea, and breathe. “I regret that I let Bellamy influence me so much. I regret that I ran away for three months, that I let Pike happen to my friends. I regret that I was so hard on Octavia. She had the right idea; I should have just followed her and Lincoln. I should have just become a Grounder.” You shift against her shoulder. “We called you Grounders all the time and I never asked: did you have a specific word for your people? Bigger than your clans, I mean.”

Lexa shakes her head. “We were of our clans. There was no word for all of us together.”

“There could have been,” you murmur.

“There almost was,” she agrees.

“Do _you_ regret it?”

“Some things,” Lexa admits, “none of them you. I wanted to tell people about us, when the time was right. I would have been proud to belong to you, both officially and in private.”

“Lexa—”

“Please don’t worry about this, Clarke. All of the things that you regret never came to pass, they would have happened. I promise you that. We would have helped everyone. It is no small accomplishment that we almost changed the world.”

“And you paid the price for it,” you mumble.

“As honorably as I could.”

“Honor left the world when you did, Lexa.”

“Clarke, I never—” She looks away. Tears shimmer in her eyes but do not fall. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to comfort you. At the very least, I wish we’d had a better goodbye.”

“We shouldn’t have had to _say_ goodbye, Lexa,” you huff. “It isn’t fair that we had so little time together and I can’t stop being angry about it.” You take a few deep breaths; Lexa kisses you calmer. “There is—there’s so much that I feel for you and I don’t know if I’ll be able to really share all of it. So maybe this life is the universe giving me enough time to try.”

Lexa smiles and wipes a few tears from your chin. “Well, then I hope the universe gives us a few more lives, so I can try to share all of me with you." 

“If we get more lives, will you find me then, too? You’ll be there?”

Lexa kisses you again. She kisses you like you’re sacred, like you’re a revelation she’s been waiting to find. She kisses you with her fingers in your hair, with her ankles wrapped around yours, with warm lips and a gentle tongue and a smile. She kisses the injustice right out of you, and you have half a mind to put it back in if it means she won’t stop. Your fingers slip underneath her shirt and she presses back against them, and she kisses you.

The world comes back into focus eventually and she pulls away, resting her forehead against yours. 

“I will always be with you, Clarke,” she promises.

(It counted. You know that now.)


	6. favourite colour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> follow-up to the first chapter, more of lexa taking care of clarke (and raven) after the car crash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a result of my nonstop listening to carly rae jepsen's "emotion" album and i'm not the least bit sorry for it. also, i've really been itching to get going on my S3 rewrite but i still need hella help planning it, so if anyone wants to talk it over with me, hit me up on tumblr: @itcameuponamidnightqueer

_hold on, now;_  
_this is getting kind of serious._  
_this is getting kind of out of control._

_slow down, now;_  
_breathing heavy when it's just a kiss._  
_this is getting kind of out of my hands._

/

You take it easy in the weeks that follow. Not because you particularly want to, but because Lexa won’t let you do anything else. Lexa is there every minute she can be, hovering over you like you’re constantly on the brink of death. From anyone else it would feel stifling. From her…you feel safe.

When she can’t be there, when you convince her to stop being late to classes, she’s texting Octavia, making sure she checks up on you. Lexa texts Raven too, mostly to tell her to keep moving her leg as much as she can; to stop rejecting help from anyone who sincerely offers it. You think they’re falling in love with Lexa just as much as you are.

(Maybe not as much. You’re falling pretty hard, pretty fast.)

“Clarke,” Raven calls from the living room. “Your girlfriend ordered us Thai food again.”

“Ooh, did she get it from the good noodle place?”

“Clarke.”

“Wait, are you seriously complaining about this?” You stop in the kitchen on your way to the living room and fill a glass with water. Raven doesn’t drink enough.

“She’s gonna make me fat, Clarke.”

“You could stand to put on a few pounds. Surgery is hell on your body.”

“I’m just saying she can diversify if she wants." 

You roll your eyes and grab your phone. “Fine, I’ll talk to her.”

 

**_[6:43 pm]_**  
_raven only wants salads  
_ _from now on._

**_[6:47 pm]  
_ ** _did she explicitly tell you that?_

**_[6:48 pm]_**  
_…raven only wants salads  
_ _from now on._

**_[6:48 pm]_**  
_clarke, she isn’t going to  
_ _last a day without meat._

**_[6:48 pm]_**  
_i’m trying to teach her_  
_that the hard way.  
_ _btdubs, thanks for dinner._

**_[6:49 pm]  
_ ** _you’re welcome._

**_[6:49 pm]_**  
_i really am going to pay you  
_ _back someday._

**_[6:50 pm]  
_ ** _in one thousand kisses?_

**_[6:50 pm]  
_ ** _lexa. don’t RENT me._

**_[6:50 pm]  
_ ** _so that’s a no on the kisses._

**_[6:50 pm]  
_ ** _lexa._

**_[6:50 pm]  
_ ** _clarke._

**_[6:51 pm]_**  
_i miss you._  


/

She drops by the next day for lunch, carrying two salads and lots of extra dressing. You’d be disturbed by how much Raven is glaring at you if you weren’t also laughing so much. 

Lexa deposits the food on your kitchen table and wakes Raven from her nap, wiggling the toes that peek out from under her blanket (the toes on her good leg, you notice. You weren’t the Grinch to begin with but surely your heart has just grown three sizes.)

“How’s your stomach?” she asks as she turns back to you.

“Great, considering it wasn’t my stomach that got busted.”

“Well I can’t ask about your spleen; you don’t have one anymore.”

“You could just ask how I’m doing. I hear that one’s a classic.”

She smiles and shakes her head, walking toward you with strides she’ll never admit are full of swagger. You want to kiss her, and badly. But you find yourself waiting for her to direct you, because Lexa never goes the way you expect her to. You’re sure that surprises have never been so endearing.

She stops further away from you than you’d like (you want to feel her under your skin) and kisses your forehead, swiping her thumbs across your cheeks. You feel yourself melt, puddling underneath her fingers until you run like molasses. Lexa waits for you to open your eyes.

“How are you?” she finally asks, and those aren’t the three words that you thought meant the most to you, but they are right now. You aren’t sure what to do, not when half of you wants to give her an honest answer and the other half wants to cry. So you nod and bite your lip and kiss her, pulling her closer when her fingers hesitate by your sides. Your hands fit perfectly in her back pockets and it might just be the jeans but it’s her too, the way she fills them out and exists in them.

You could get lost in Lexa, willingly, but she wouldn’t let you. Lexa always finds ways to ground you, to remind you where you are and how amazing it is that you’re there. She touches you in new places every time you see her; every kiss is one you’ve never experienced before. You just know, with your gut and your heart and every instinct you have, that you could do this for a very long time.

“Lexa…”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I—”

“Jesus Christ, Griffin; if you don’t sleep with her soon I swear to god I will.”

You both jump at Raven’s voice. Lexa laughs when she looks at you and you know she’s thinking what you are—how did you not hear Raven get up from the couch?

“Good to see you up and about, Raven,” Lexa says.

“I’m really not joking. That was one hell of a kiss.”

“You’re being a little creepy, you know.” You’re fairly certain she _is_ joking, but you give her your best stare anyway.

“And if the other sounds I hear coming from your room are any indication—”

You grab Lexa by the hand and drag her away. “Okay, Raven, enjoy your salad; there isn’t any bacon on it!”

“Then how am I supposed to enjoy it!” 

/

Lexa slips off her shoes and jacket while you scoot back on your bed, sitting against your mountain of pillows. She flops her legs over yours when she joins you. Lexa takes up as much of the bed as she can every time you share one.

“I really am doing great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, me and my busted stomach and my invisible spleen. We’re all doing great.”

“See now, I feel like you’re making fun of me.” 

“Only in the best of ways.”

She sighs and slides further down the bed. Her feet dangle over the edge and you’ve never noticed how beautiful they are, long and slender and full of angles.

You’re pretty sure you’ve gotta be in deep if you think a girl’s feet are pretty.

“Clarke?”

“Hm?”

“If I say something, will you say it back?”

“Is it a big something or a little something?”

“It depends on your units of measurement.” 

“You need to stop hanging around Raven so much.”

“Clarke.”

“Can I say it first?”

Lexa looks at you like she might cry, only you beat her to the punch.

“Sorry,” you whisper, “I didn’t think I was gonna get so teary about it. It just means a lot to me, everything you’ve done these last few weeks and who you are. I really do, you know—I really love you, a whole lot. I don’t even think I’ve hit the peak of loving you.”

“Good.”

“Good?” you laugh. “You have this whole buildup to ‘I love you’ and then all you say is good?”

“To be fair,” Lexa sniffles, “you derailed my plans and I’m easily overwhelmed.”

“Yeah?”

Lexa nods her head and sniffs again. “Anya says I’m too sensitive, because I love deep and quick and it’s gotten me burned in the past. But how can I not when people like you exist?”

“You love me deep?”

“Oh, the deepest.” 

You kiss her again, warm and long and with your fists clutching at her shirt. You’re both crying by now and you can feel the love, deep and in your bones.

“Clarke, I—” She pulls away, sighing. “ _Shit_ , I love you.”

You snort right into her face. “That’s honestly the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Are you kidding?” Raven shouts from the hallway. “I was swooning at ‘good’.”

“Eat your salad, Raven,” you and Lexa shout in unison.

“Gross.” 

“Us?” 

“No, the salad. Can you buy me real food, preferably some that’s overflowing with beef?”

You roll your eyes and reach across Lexa to rifle in your nightstand drawer where all the best takeout menus live. Lexa plays with your hair, scratching her fingers at the base of your scalp, and that’s when you decide.

Raven can order her own food.


	7. all that we let in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nothing but fluffy clexa eating breakfast together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) it's been a while since we had a lexa chapter so it was _definitely_ time to fix that.  
>  b) i know, an indigo girls song; how gay (it's so gay, truly)  
> c) quite honestly this is probably my favorite verse ever written about love in the history of the human language so i'm not really mad at how gay it is  
> d) i hope you enjoy!

_i pass the cemetery, walk my dog down there._   
_i see the names in stone and i say a silent prayer._   
_when i get home you're cooking supper on the stove,_   
_and the greatest gift of life is to know love._

/

Clarke doesn’t like early mornings, but you do. (One of you has to now that you have Frisbee, the fluffiest German shepherd who never sleeps.) You grab the dog and go for a run; sometimes you stop at Clarke’s favorite bakery and pick up a few cheese muffins. On cold mornings you definitely come back with travel cups from the coffee shop down the street. Never mind the fact that Clarke almost always has a pot bubbling when you get home; if you’re going to be one of those couples who are frequently too kind to each other, so be it. The world can compensate with terrible politicians.

But when it’s fall and the chill is just starting to sink into the air; when the leaves are halfway to crunchy and Frisbee tries to jump on all of them—this is when you take a detour and buy a new wreath from Jill, who runs a nearby nursery. You’d given up on flowers years ago. They die too fast and it was always more depressing to see new flowers wilted than to think about why you were putting them there in the first place.

You don’t always talk to her. Sometimes, when something very good happens and you just want to tell _someone_ , someone who knows you all the way down and will understand exactly why you’re so happy—well, sometimes you can’t shut up. It’s Clarke now but it was Costia first and you don’t think that’s ever going to change 

So you would have talked to her today, with Frisbee’s leash trapped between your wrist and the ground as you leaned back on your hands. You would have balanced the wreath on top of her gravestone like you always do, and told her about all the good things in your life: Clarke; how close you are to your doctorate. The house you think you and Clarke are actually ready to buy together.

But you’re stopped short when you replace the wreath by the yellow tulip sitting gracefully on top of the old one. You know there are yellow tulips just like this one in a cemetery in Maryland, missing a father who was gone too soon.

You want to run home to Clarke the way they do in the movies.

/

You smell syrup when you open the door. Frisbee barks and jumps up your thighs as you fiddle with his leash. He’s so eager to have it off and you wish every time that you could explain to him, very precisely, that it would come off faster if he would just calm down. But he’s a dog and he’ll be one forever, so you sigh and scratch behind his ears. He does a few laps around the apartment once he’s finally free.

“I thought the runs were supposed to drain him of energy,” Clarke calls from the kitchen.

“I thought you couldn’t cook.”

“Hey, now. You love my pancakes.”

“I love all of you.”

You wrap your arms around Clarke’s waist, burrowing your head into her shoulder. She hasn’t taken a shower yet and her hair is piled on top of her head in the messiest bun you’ve ever seen. You watch out for her arms, because her pancakes are starting to bubble, but you ache for her to turn around and kiss you. 

“Thank you for the tulip.”

“You started it.”

“I know.” You remember the bottle of beer you left on Jake’s grave last summer (because it was your favorite to drink together and he deserved the last one), and you kiss her neck because you can. “Thank you anyway.”

Clarke hums and flips the pancakes. They’re crispy around the edges, just like you like them. You give her one more kiss and a pat on the butt before you start to slice some bananas. The easiest way to make sure Clarke eats fruit, you’ve learned, is to pair it with something sugary. Strawberries are next, and then cantaloupe because she’s not done and you need something to do with your hands.

Clarke makes too many pancakes, more than two people can feasibly eat in one sitting, and yet you always seem to clean your plate. She piles them as high as she can, walking them over to the table gingerly and with a steady eye on the top of the stack. You wait until she’s put them down, still jiggling from being released, before you turn her around and kiss her the way you’ve wanted to since before the sun came up.

It’s a kiss meant for a collared shirt, so you could pull her impossibly close to you, but it’s a Saturday morning and Clarke is wearing your ratty Georgetown sweater, so you settle for resting your hands in the front pocket and tugging. Collared-shirt-kisses are how you feel about Clarke all the time. You hope she gets it.

Clarke smiles and licks her lips when you pull away. You watch as she blinks the morning back into her eyes, repeating “okay” as if that’s all life is right now. Life is so much more than that. She says it softer every time until suddenly you look up to wet eyes and you know she feels a lot more than okay.

Clarke pours two mugs of coffee as she sits down. You take your seat next to her, spooning fruit onto her plate with your one free hand. The other, as usual, is too busy being held.


	8. glitter in the air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clarke griffin, recently engaged, is Having Some Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOY it's been a minute, huh? i think i have to drag myself kicking and screaming back into writing if i ever want to feel like i'm in the groove again, so if i seem rusty i apologize. also, i didn't plan it this way but i think all of the modern AU chapters ended up fitting together. this one definitely calls back to chapter 3 (i just reread it and didn't realize how overtly it did so--WHOOPS. like i said, rusty.)
> 
> my sister's bachelorette party is this weekend so guess who's in a sappy mood and churned this out fairly quickly. all mistakes are mine, ever, as they always have been.
> 
> lyrics are p!nk's, we all know it, have fun reading
> 
> also, a p.s.: these chapters are now 6/2 in the modern AU v. canon setting and while i love modern AUs with all of my little heart (i do!), if anyone has canon prompts, float them on over; i love them (and symmetry) even more

_have you ever wished for an endless night?_  
_lassoed the moon and the stars and held that rope tight?_  
_have you ever held your breath, and asked yourself,_  
_'will it ever get better than tonight?'_

.

It’s been on your mind ever since that night with the hammock. Under your mind, really, bubbling up into everything you do. Your friends and family have stopped asking when it’s going to happen and you know they think they won’t be surprised when you tell them because it’s been six years. It was obvious to everyone before that, is what they’ll say. A part of them will be right. The other part will be crying.

You haven’t stopped crying yourself.

Lexa noticed right away, when the feeling hit, even if you couldn’t tell her what it was. She’s always been attuned to your quietest moments. You’ve wondered sometimes if that’s because she likes you best during those times, when you can be quiet together. Even if Lexa is something else, she’s always quiet. 

She asked and didn’t press when you couldn’t answer. She stopped talking; or she leaned her head on your shoulder; returned a squeeze of the hand when that was enough. Lexa probably thought she was comforting some unspoken hurt but that wasn’t it at all. Holding her hand is a comfort of a different kind, an enduring one. Every time you grip her fingers it feels like a promise.

A breeze billows the curtains halfway into your room. You have a bigger balcony now; the rooms in your three-bedroom apartment have less clutter and more purposeful furniture. You’ve grown, simple as that. Your walls have photos and prints instead of posters. One night, in a tipsy fit of sentiment, your mom got choked up in front of a picture of you, Lexa, and your old dog Beef, and said she was proud of your family. You have a family now that doesn’t always include your mom. You’ve _grown_.

Lexa turns in her sleep and sighs, nuzzling a pillow with her nose. Her mouth is open just a little, as it always is, and in the morning you’ll have to kiss the dryness out of her lips, as you always do. You smile, lifting a strand of hair from her cheek. Moonlight glints off the ring on Lexa’s nightstand and you smile even more.

She’d wanted to wear it to bed but it’s just a little loose and you didn’t want anything happening to it overnight. A tiny part of you is convinced that when you wake up in the morning, it won’t be there. She’ll have said no or you’ll have forgotten to ask or any number of other scenarios that are just as ridiculous. You can’t help it; every day with Lexa feels so good that you have to wonder if, eventually, the other shoe will drop.

“Clarke.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“ _You_ go back to sleep.”

“Can’t go back; I haven’t been.”

“Huh?”

“To sleep.”

Lexa lifts herself up, her arms slow and groggy. She doesn’t make it to a full sitting position before she reaches for the ring. She puts it on again, pressing her fingers together a little tighter to make sure it stays in place.

You’re going to stop breathing every time you see her wearing the ring you bought for her; you just know it. Every time for the rest of your life.

“I’ll get it resized tomorrow,” she murmurs. “I want to go to sleep with it, too.”

“Okay.”

Lexa looks at it one more time (twice more, but you won’t let her know you saw that sneaky second glance) before putting it back and pulling you toward her. She wiggles and adjusts until her arm is around you and your head is on her chest. You fall asleep easiest this way but you know Lexa rarely does.

“You’re not going to be able to fall asleep again.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What if _I_ still can’t fall asleep?”

“Don’t worry about that either,” Lexa shrugs. “We can just lie here quietly together; we don’t have to be asleep.” She kisses your shoulder. “There isn’t a list of rules we have to follow, Clarke, and even if there were, we’ve got a whole lifetime ahead to break them.”

You’re not sure how long it takes you to fall asleep; you’re not even sure you really do. But the next time you open your eyes, you can smell coffee and bacon. Lexa has covered you with your favorite blanket and the ring is resting in its box, gleaming in the sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> i have a few songs on my list for future chapters, but what i don't have are ideas for plots. so hit me up [on my tumblr](http://itcameuponamidnightqueer.tumblr.com). gimme songs, gimme plots. AU, modern--whatever soft clexa you need to fill a void, i promise to try and write it.


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